Choreographing Christmas
by Garrae
Summary: Lanie does Christmas like it's going out of fashion (oh, if only!) and invariably, and as inevitably as death and taxes, hauls Beckett along behind her, kicking, screaming and threatening. Beckett does not do Christmas. Ever. She does not do festivity. Castle, on the other hand, does. But not quite like Lanie. Not at all like Lanie, in fact.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

She is going to kill Lanie.

Beckett experiences homicidal feelings to her – self-described – best friend approximately once a year, almost always coinciding with Christmas. Lanie does Christmas like it's going out of fashion (oh, if only!) and invariably, and as inevitably as death and taxes, hauls Beckett along behind her, kicking, screaming and threatening.

Beckett does not do Christmas. Ever. She does not do festivity. She would do mulled wine, by the bucketful, but Lanie wants to do shopping (Beckett hates shopping, unless it's books or shoes, neither of which figure in Lanie's Christmas plans); food (it's not chocolate, so Beckett couldn't care less about that either); cheap champagne (just _no_ ); and frivolity. Beckett does not frivol.

Beckett does a list, carefully thought through and selected, which she organises with ruthless efficiency in September, purchases in early October, and then forgets about until she wraps the meagre pile in mid-December. In between, she congratulates herself on her organisational abilities and doesn't think about the festive season at all.

Lanie always wants to go get a huge real Christmas tree, which will drop pine needles all over her apartment. Lanie says it scents the air, and will spend a week decorating it extensively (and then four weeks swearing about the pine needles in her feet). Lanie has eight full crates of decorations, and puts every single one of them up. Beckett has, under protest, purchased a table top fibre optic plain white tree of considerable tastefulness and no decorations at all. It's as chilly and calm as she is. Beckett goes with Lanie, if only because Lanie will nag until she has no choice. She declines to assist with the decorating, and regards Lanie's lecherous leering – as Lanie purchases enough mistletoe to stock Bloomingdales out – with distaste.

"Girl, you are no fun at all."

"Nope."

"It's Christmas. Season of goodwill, merriment and festivity."

"If you say so."

"You need something to cheer you up."

"How about a nice messy murder?" Of Santa, for preference. And then all his non-existent elves. She's heard that reindeer steaks taste good, too.

"How about a nice sexy man?"

"Nope."

"Kate…" Lanie says warningly, "if you don't start having some fun I'll drag you out myself for a bar crawl. Bet we find some nice sexy men that way."

"I won't come," Beckett says sulkily. "I don't want a nice sexy man. They're too full of themselves."

"I think you got this all wrong. You're supposed to be full" –

" _Lanie!_ "

"Anyway. I got a better plan. You know I've got the Doctors' Dance next Saturday?"

"Lanie…" Beckett says pathetically, trying and failing to slide away. Lanie clamps a hand on her arm, and short of actually breaking her definitely-not-friend-anymore's arm (which would get Beckett arrested, though it might be worth it), Beckett can't get away. Yet. "Lanie, I can't dance. You try this every year, and I tell you every year I can't dance."

"Yeah, you do. And this year," Lanie says with a wide, satisfied and above all _evil_ smile, "I've done something about it."

"You _what_ now?"

"It's your Christmas present. We're going to dance lessons. It's all booked. Ballroom dancing lessons, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday."

"No!"

"Yes, girlfriend. Doctors' Dance is Saturday, so you're getting three intensive lessons."

"I don't have the right dress."

"You don't need a dress till we go to the real dance, and you've got plenty of dresses. Some of them even look good."

"I don't have any shoes."

Lanie regards her with complete contempt and disbelief. "You have more shoes than Imelda Marcos and you can run a mile in five inch heels. I've seen you do it. You got shoes, girl, and if you try that excuse again I'll make you eat them."

"I don't wanna!" Beckett wails.

She doesn't. She doesn't want to go dancing at all. The last time she went dancing was at that stupid fundraiser, months ago. She doesn't think about that, either. Much. Because not long after that it all went stupidly, hopelessly wrong, and now they're _dancing_ (ha!) round each other like they're made of eggshells and nothing is like it was before. Dancing is over-rated. Sexy men are definitely over-rated. And Christmas is one thousand percent (and she really does not care that mathematically one hundred percent is the maximum available) over-rated.

"You're going."

"I'm _not_ going. You can't make me."

Lanie glares at her. "You wanna bet on that? I can make your life _hell_ if you don't go. Just watch me."

Badass Beckett, terror of the Twelfth and lacerator of lowlifes everywhere, cowers. "I don't _wanna_ ," she wails again. "I can't dance. I don't want to learn to dance. I don't want to come to the Doctors' Dance and I don't want to wear a dress."

"All I'm hearing is _don'ts_ ," Lanie scowls. "You better start with some _do-s_. Anyway, it's all arranged. And if you don't show, I'll come round to your apartment or the bullpen and drag you out – and if I have to do _that_ , you'll be in that _Showgirls_ dress that I told you to put in the trash but I bet you didn't."

"Lanie, that's not _fair_ ," Beckett howls. "You're supposed to be my _friend_."

"I am your friend. And this is me staging an intervention because you've been moping for months and you need some Christmas spirit."

"I _need_ some whiskey spirit," Beckett mutters.

"You're not having whiskey. You're having a Christmas cheer present."

"I don't want" – Beckett is stopped by the sheer force of Lanie's glare.

"You want to hide in a cellar and never come out."

"At least it would have alcohol."

"I'm not letting you. You're _going_ to come out and have some Christmas fun. End. Of."

Beckett stomps home in an even fouler mood than the one in which she'd gone out. Lanie may be her best friend, but she tries this every freaking Christmas and Beckett is thoroughly fed up of it. Unfortunately, Lanie has ways of making her displeasure felt, and since shooting her, even somewhere minor and non-fatal like a toe or ear, would only get Beckett jail time, which would be an even worse way of spending Christmas than a dance lesson or the Doctors' Dance, she can't retaliate.

She spends the rest of Sunday sulking. Not that she calls it sulking, though. Frantically trying to think of a way out of this disaster that doesn't involve deliberately breaking her ankle, though she even considers that, is what Beckett calls it.

* * *

Lanie saunters home with a lubricious sway of her hips, induced almost entirely by her plotting. She's tired of watching Kate deliberately ruin her life and ignore the elephant in the bullpen. She thinks back to a couple of weeks ago, when Kate had, yet again, declined to come out for a drink with the gang and instead scuttled off home to hide. Just because she doesn't like Christmas is no reason to act like the Grinch.

Ryan had brought Jenny along – now there's someone who knows how to have a good time – Esposito had been on better (that is, less scowly) form than usual, and of course Castle was his normal cheerful self. Castle is a man who knows how to do Christmas, and he and Lanie had certainly had a lot of Christmas to talk about. And then Lanie had had her brilliant idea. The whole scene floats into her memory, after the others had left.

"Christmas is great," Castle said happily. "Food, drink, happiness, presents, decorations… Perfect."

"Yeah," Lanie agreed. "I love it. Everybody happy."

Castle flicked a glance around. "Except Beckett," he murmured. "She won't even come out for a drink this time of year."

"Probably scared you'll whip out the mistletoe."

"Not likely. I don't want shot."

"Fraidy cat," Lanie jibed.

"Thought you liked me," Castle muttered plaintively.

"I do. I just like Kate better, and I've known her longer." She paused, and grinned evilly. "Long enough to know when she needs an intervention."

"Lanie…" Castle whimpered. "You're plotting, and it's me who's going to suffer."

"It's Christmas. Don't you want to give Kate a present?"

"Well, yes…"

"Listen up, then. Do you like dancing?"

"Dancing?"

"Get with the program, Castle. Three weeks Saturday is the annual Doctors' Dance. It's a charity fundraiser like that one you did for the case earlier this year."

"When Beckett would still actually talk to me about more than just the weather," he'd grumped.

"Yeah, yeah. Stop sulking. So she's pulled back with you. You hurt her, and she's still upset. You know Kate. Grudges might as well be her teddy bears, she cuddles them so close." Castle snickered. "I don't see you doing much to fix it either. Anyway, Writer-Boy, I got a plan."

"Oh, God."

"Don't be like that. I've seen you staring at Kate's ass every chance you get."

"I do _not_."

"You telling me you're checking out her shoes?" Castle growled. " _Anyway._ Shuttup and listen. Doctors' Dance. You're going. Black tie. I know that's not a problem for you."

"Why'm I going to a Doctors' Dance? Are you inviting me?"

Lanie leered, lecherously. "You could say that," she grinned. "On Kate's behalf."

" _What_?" Castle screeched. The look on his face was worth a fortune. "You said you _liked_ me! You're a big fat liar, Lanie Parrish."

"You're as childish as Kate. No wonder you can't get it on. Pair of five-year olds."

"I am a mature adult."

"Who just called me a big fat liar. Yeah. Very adult." Castle subsided into grumbles and grouses. "Do you want to take Kate to the dance or not?" He glared at her. "So you do. No point lying to me, Writer-Boy. I've got you pegged."

Lanie bounces happily at the memory, though not too much. Kate had been ridiculously anti-dancing. Castle, on the other hand, had been totally delighted with the tango theme. Eventually. After Lanie had promised to stop Kate killing him. Quite how Lanie will manage that, she has no idea. Especially as she won't actually be there. Well. She will be there. At the dance lessons. She's always wanted to improve her rather…um…raunchy… style. She'll be at the actual dance, too – with her own date. Mr July, from the firefighter's calendar. Brains are not what Lanie Parrish is looking for. No sirree. She, Lanie Parrish, MD, knows how to have a good time, and it's not lots of _brains_ she's looking for to have that.

* * *

Wednesday arrives far too quickly for Beckett's peace of mind. Her day, and indeed the entire week so far, has not been improved by Lanie's constant reminders of her dancing lessons. Beckett does not want to learn to dance. She'd managed precisely one ballet class, aged six, and refused to go back on the grounds that she couldn't stand pink, frills, pwetty wittle giwls, or the teacher's insistence that they pretend to be fairy princesses, which – as she had pointed out – don't exist. The teacher had been almost as relieved as Beckett that she hadn't returned. Her parents… had not been surprised.

Come shift end she stomps out with brusque farewells and a scowl fit to start fires. Not even Castle manages Christmas cheer in the face of her glowering. Beckett is _sure_ that he's hiding mistletoe in his pocket – this is Castle, after all, who is sneaky, as well as sexy, not that she's paying attention to that latter attribute, no way – and is therefore avoiding any possibility of being trapped under it. She _hates_ Christmas, dancing, Christmas, cheerfulness, Christmas, and indeed, just for good measure, Christmas.

The dancing lessons are in a studio not far from the precinct, unfortunately, which gives her no excuse to get lost, accidentally-on-purpose, or to be late. Especially as Lanie has called her twice already to make sure she's on the way. Anyone would think that Lanie didn't trust her.

Anyone would have been right.

Beckett stalks into the studio with her shield and gun on overt display, which does nothing for the atmosphere. It goes from cheerfully jovial to terrified in half a second flat, which is in no way relieved when Beckett admits to being part of the class.

"We have lockers," the dance teacher suggests, tentatively.

"I don't need a locker."

"We don't normally have people wearing… guns…in…" the instructor grinds to a halt, in the face of Beckett's searing glare. He doesn't restart. Beckett goes and sits next to Lanie, who regards her with disgust but doesn't try to change her mind.

"Okay, everyone," says an offensively perky female in a red dress with white marabou trim, clearly selected to induce Christmas spirit, joy and happiness. Certainly in every male, since it's barely decent at the neck. It induces in Beckett a desire to arrest her for offences against good taste. "Let's get started. This is a beginners' class: no experience required. We're going to learn the tango."

" _Tango_?" Beckett whispers furiously to Lanie. "What the actual _fuck_?"

"Shh! It's an Argentinian theme this year. Tango."

"The tango is sex on the dance floor. I'm not doing any freaking _tango_."

"You're not doing any other sex either, so you're doing this."

"My sex life is none of your business."

"Doesn't seem to be any of yours either, since you don't have one."

Beckett growls viciously and produces a glare which should, but unfortunately does not, incinerate Lanie, the dance studio, and most of Manhattan including every Christmas tree, on the spot. She decides in that instant that her Christmas present to herself is going to be killing Lanie and then emigrating to somewhere that they don't do Christmas. A yurt in Outer Mongolia is looking pretty good, right now, and there is no extradition treaty. Or Santa, elves, reindeer or dancing. Perfect.

She is approached by a dance partner dressed in a black open-necked shirt and dress pants. When she stands up, Lanie stifles a giggle, not effectively. Beckett, in her usual heels, is four inches taller than the man. He scuttles off, to be replaced by someone who is at least the same height as her but rake thin (she likes broad), slicked back black hair (she likes soft brown), brown-eyed (which is all very well but she prefers blue), and with a slightly supercilious expression. He is clearly trying to look as if he's a Castilian hidalgo, in which he is failing spectacularly, achieving only third-rate gigolo circa nineteen-thirty. His supercilious expression rapidly changes to cringing horror as Beckett divests herself of her jacket and the gun and shield are revealed. She doesn't take them off.

Lanie ( _traitor_ ) has already launched herself on to the floor with the shorter man. She looks totally happy. She also needs a more supportive bra, Beckett thinks snidely, though her partner is certainly not objecting.

Beckett strides on to the floor with no concession to the professional's attempts to lead her. On the other hand, she might hate being here (this is a totally _shit_ Christmas present, and Lanie will be getting one lump of dirty coal and a switch from her) but she hates looking stupid or doing things badly even more, so she is going to ram Lanie's present back down Lanie's dumb throat by being relatively good at it. Even if this dance partner is the wrong size, wrong shape, and just plain _wrong_. (And she is not thinking about her last dance partner. Not at all. Absolutely not at all. She'd been able to dance with him – _No!_ Not. Thinking. About. Castle. Even if she absolutely wishes it was he and not this sleazy, greasy professional.)

She takes her place, listens carefully, applies a fine mind and a great deal of focused determination, puts the step sequence into her steel-trap memory, and after two or three tries in which her main problem is remembering that she does not lead, forces her feet to follow the right pattern and not stamp on her partner's. He seems relatively pleased with her progress.

"Okay," the professional says. "Let's try the whole pattern." Beckett regards him with dislike. He cringes. (Castle wouldn't cringe. Castle would smirk, and say something suggestive.) "You've picked up all the steps just fine, so now we're going to put them together." The music begins, and so do they. It works, sort of. By the end of the lesson it's working rather better than that.

"Well done," says the professional with an unflattering note of surprise. "You've made really good progress. Is this really your first time?"

"Yes," Beckett says, thinking _and I wish it was my last_.

"By the end of the course you'll have no problems. You won't be entering Dancing with the Stars" – Beckett's grimace says it all – "but you'll certainly be better than most. Have you done a lot of other dance?"

"No." That closes off that conversation. Maybe it's the yoga, or high school gymnastics, that's left her flexible.

"Anyways, see you tomorrow for the next lesson. Try and practice at home, if you have a few moments, just to fix the step sequences in your mind. After that we can talk about the emotion of the dance. No point in doing that before you get the steps right."

Beckett is not interested in the emotion of the dance, especially not from a slicked-hair, slightly sleazy professional. She has no interest in the story behind the tango, no interest in visiting Argentina, and she is only doing this so that she doesn't make a total ass of herself on Saturday. After that she'll forget it with considerable relief.

Right now, she's going to go home with considerable relief, and eat chocolate ice-cream till it comes out of her ears.

She hasn't reckoned on Lanie.

"Right, girlfriend. We're going dress shopping."

" _You're_ going dress shopping. I'm going home." Or possibly back to the precinct, where nobody will disturb her.

"Okay," Lanie says so quickly that Beckett thinks she's planned it. "We're gonna make sure you've got the right dress – and I don't mean that red one Castle bought you. No way."

That's good, since Beckett had no intention of wearing it. It's as far back in her closet as it can be without it visiting Narnia. There's a thought. Maybe she could visit Narnia. It's never Christmas there.

Lanie drags Beckett back to her own apartment and without hesitation dives into her closet. Less than five minutes later all her dresses are out, and Lanie is appraising them. She is also throwing them into two piles.

"Ugh," Lanie emits. "Double ugh. Where'd you get this one? Ma Walton's Hick Hillbilly store?"

"Hey!"

"It's awful. It doesn't even suit you. What were you on?"

And so on, and so forth. Beckett betakes herself out of her own bedroom, and makes herself coffee. She doesn't offer Lanie one. She also doesn't go back into her bedroom, but huddles into the couch and sulks. Finally Lanie reappears.

"Right. You have no dance dresses. We're going shopping tomorrow." She looks around. "For a dress and some Christmas decorations."

"No. No decorations."

"But" –

"Lanie," says Beckett, in a tone that would stop God in His tracks. "No decorations." Lanie scowls, but leaves the subject.

"Dress shopping, then."

"I've got plenty of dresses."

"Nope. You have three dresses."

"What?"

"Once I culled all the ones which I told you to put in the trash last time, there were three left. None of them are right for the dance. So we're going shopping."

"You culled _my dresses_?"

"Yep," Lanie says unrepentantly. "And if you ever took my advice you'd have done it six months ago."

"But… but… but…"

"But you haven't worn any of them for five years. But they make you look like an explosion in a paint factory. But most of them make you look like you chose them with your eyes shut."

"You're supposed to be my friend."

"I am your friend. That's why I'm not letting you go out in those dresses. We're gonna go get you a dress that'll knock every doctor dead."

"There are easier ways to get promoted to Chief ME, Lanie."

Lanie giggles. _Giggles_. Beckett considers strangling her. She'd use tinsel, except she has no tinsel. "You need some fun. C'mon. I need to buy a new dress too. Bonding time. I've got the perfect shop."

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

 _Five chapters of Christmas spirit. Or something like that. Tue/Thu/Sun, as usual, subject to travel or unexpected loss of wifi._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Lanie refuses to be moved from her vandalising of Beckett's perfectly acceptable wardrobe and her freestyle spending of Beckett's money. She even takes the rejected dresses with her when she leaves, which Beckett considers to be utterly unreasonable. She'd have put them in the trash – eventually. She consoles herself with half a gallon of chocolate ice-cream, and resolutely refuses to look up the story of tango.

If she wasn't on such uncomfortable terms with Castle, she'd have called him up and told him all about it.

If she wasn't on such uncomfortable terms with Castle, she could have asked him to go to the dance lessons with her. He'd be a much better partner. If he hadn't been such a jackass. And yes, he apologised, and _yes_ , she should get over herself – but, ridiculously, it still hurts; and because she can't get over herself neither can he, though he keeps trying to cheer her up.

She dissolves into a gloomy, unhappy morass of moodiness, and is not at all comforted by her chilly, classy Christmas tree and her chilly, classy lack of decorations. She is even less comforted by the knowledge that she has two more dance lessons, an unwanted and undoubtedly expensive shopping trip (she can afford it, she just doesn't want to), and then the dance itself, where Lanie will claim that Christmas involves mistletoe and try to set her up with half a dozen unappealingly dumb muscle-men. Beckett likes some brains. More than some brains.

 _Castle has brains_ , her annoyingly unhelpful mind mutters at her.

 _Yeah, and he uses them for doing exactly what I don't want him to_ , she mutters back.

 _So tell him what you want him to do_ , her mind snaps at her.

 _Go away, that's what I want_.

 _Liar_ , her mind contradicts. _You want him to stop messing around and kiss you. You just won't let on. Coward_.

Beckett silences her mind under enough chocolate ice-cream to bury Texas, and then, unsurprisingly, feels rather unwell. She has a hot shower, which helps, and goes to bed, wishing she'd gone out for a run rather than guzzling ice-cream. She'll do that – the running, that is – tomorrow.

In her dream, or possibly nightmare, she's back in the dance studio, being put through her paces: drilled over and over again. _You have to get it right. You can't dance together if you don't get it right_. She can't see the instructor: and she's moving through the step pattern alone. Gradually, the steps become correct, and as they do, her garb changes from her formal precinct pants and button-down to a crimson dress with flame motif swirling from below the waist to her cleavage, low cut and fitted as precisely as a second skin, knee length with a flaring skirt with a thigh high split; crimson high heels. A partner arrives, behind her, unseen but very palpably present: claims her with a hard, possessive hand at her hip, turning her to him and taking her left hand into his, that at her hip sliding up to her back.

In her dream, the partner's face becomes Castle; the figure becomes his broad form; the hand on her back is his wide span and long, thick fingers: his clasp firm and sure as the pattern begins, bringing her close against him. As part of the dance, she turns to pull away, and is instantly returned.

"No," he murmurs darkly. "No running. No escape. Just me."

He leads her through another figure: all the passion and emotion that she hadn't had in the lessons spilling out into her steps; and she essays another escape, is twirled back and held tightly, her leg curling up around his hard thigh as she is dipped.

"Caught you," comes in the same treacle-dark tone, sin sliding through the sound.

She merely smiles, though desire is flaring within her as she's pressed against him, the skirt parting to let his leg in, firm muscle and the roughness of fabric against her own smoothness, sending her liquid around him.

"But you can't keep me."

"Sure I can." Smooth darkness in the tone wraps around her as his leg withdraws, leaving the scorching heat behind it. "If I don't let go, you can't escape."

She tugs a little, and achieves no separation at all.

"See?" he whispers. "Caught."

He leans closer still, and breathes an almost-kiss into her neck. She shivers, and her hand slides towards his neck. He presses her in, and she can feel hard arousal and the clenching of her own need deep in her body. Warmth ghosts across the naked skin of her shoulder, trickling down below the flames licking close to the deep neckline of the dress.

A few more steps take place, an arrogant, possessive male chasing down an angry, elusive woman: convincing her that he's the one; that she's the one. Gradually his arrogance acquires a softer edge, less demanding; her mute resistance begins to melt; the hard strut turns sensual; the firm hold eases and they move in harmony. He dips her again, her leg comes up around his waist in a perfect piernazo and this time his fingers glide over the satin beneath the split of the skirt, opening again under the thrust of his thigh, circle sensuously, slip and slide and then move dangerously close to setting her alight, withdraw; bring her back to upright and then he leans in and confidently takes her mouth in one suave, commanding motion.

His kiss demands, commands, opens and possesses; hands firm on her back and neck: holding her still against his hard body and hot arousal, the sexual intimations of the dance shifting into overt eroticism. He deepens his kiss, and she flows against him, soft under his touch, not angry or cold any more, but hotly liquid, giving back soft response. This time, when she curls a leg around his middle, she's caught between his muscle and a wall, his wicked hands roaming over her in proud ownership, teasing lightly at her breasts. His lips follow, tracing the edges of fabric, back to her parted mouth: his fingers trace the flame appliqued to the silk fabric and play teasingly, then more firmly, with the erect nipple below. His hips press into her, just where she wants them, and she rolls with it, bringing herself higher.

"Naughty," he murmurs darkly. "I've caught you, so you're mine to play with. I'll give you what you want." He presses her harder against the wall: stops her hips shifting, hard between her legs but there's still fabric between them, blocking what she wants. She whimpers, a noise she shouldn't make, and it fires him up: surging into her mouth once more and palming, rolling, a little rough, a lot assertive, and through all of it hard, passionate strength and potency pushed against her soaked, sensitised core.

He finds the invisible zip of the fiery dress and opens it, baring her to the waist: no bra, no camisole to conceal her: the heat and admiration mingling with the possessiveness in his blazing blue eyes to heat her further. She arches towards him, reaching to open the black shirt, and he allows that until his own wide chest is as naked as hers, but then he removes her searching hands to place them back around his neck.

"Leave them there," he commands softly. "I lead in this dance."

In the dream, it's erotic, and she gives in and concedes. He returns to her breasts, moulding and playing, soft pinches and then licks and suckling, tiny sharp nips in counterpoint, and then he drops to his knees before her and takes the dress and her panties with him and she's naked but for sky-high crimson heels.

For a moment, he only gazes: hot, forceful and intent, examining every bared inch as if she were a portrait in some very private gallery: a classical master's take on the epitome of erotic feminity. She's soaked, wetter than she's ever been simply under that scorching blue, open and needy and "Touch me," she breathes, pleading.

"Touch you how?" he demands. "Tell me what you want."

She shifts, spreading her stance. "Here," she points. "Touch me here."

"How?" he asks again, still not touching, watching – _observing_ – learning her reactions. "Tell me how."

"I don't care. Any way you want," she pants, hopelessly aroused as his chest rubs her thighs and his hands cradle her hips. "You said you'd lead, so _do it_ ," she begs.

"Oh, yes," he growls. "I'll lead." He leans forward, and though he's kneeling he's still wholly in control as he places a kiss on her navel, flicks his tongue into the dip, presses his chest against the tangled curls below, scrapes a hint, just a hint, of stubble down the delicate skin from navel through curls to rub tantalisingly over the nerve bud and open her further on a long hot gasp. Her hands clench in his hair, trying and failing to push him to her scalding centre. "My way."

His tongue flickers out and laps once, far too lightly, over her: he sits back on his heels and smiles dangerously at her.

"My way," he repeats. "You're going to _scream_ for me. You'll see stars because of me. You'll be mine every way there is."

And then he leans forward again, wraps hard hands around her thighs, spreads her wider and begins. His mouth is by turns soft and hard; his tongue flexible, then forceful; licking then sucking, a slow, firm line and then a probing, entering thrust within her that drags a whimpering moan from her mouth. He repeats: flicking over the nerves, taking her arousal with every movement that takes her, and her noise rises as he drives her towards climax for the first time and she crashes over in shattering culmination –

…and wakes, breathless and limp, soaked and satisfied and utterly horrified.

* * *

Castle spends Wednesday evening sitting in his study contemplating his tuxedo, which he has dusted off following Lanie's text confirmation that she'd got Beckett to the dance lessons. The last time he wore it, he'd been dancing with Beckett. At least till his mother had started auctioning him off like a prize bull. Ugh. Well, _this_ time there isn't going to be his mother, there isn't going to be a charity auction – or at least, not one starring him as a for-sale stud – and there _is_ going to be a lot more dancing with Beckett in his arms.

Tango. He hums happily. He likes the tango. The more he thinks about it, the better he likes it, in fact. He'd learned it (along with just about every other ballroom dance going) while helping his mother practice for various roles, but he thinks that it's just perfect for Beckett-catching.

Lanie, Castle decides, has a really, really good line in Christmas presents. This is definitely his best present in years: a whole evening spent twirling Beckett around a dance floor and making sure she's close-held. Close-embrace tango. He wonders how good a dancer Beckett is, because at the fundraiser she'd seemed a little stiff. (He'd been a lot stiff, but that's different. Very different.)

Anyway. Tango. Beckett. And the tango is basically sex with all your clothes still on and without a bed. So Castle is quite sure that he will have an extremely entrancingly erotic evening, and he is also quite sure that he can arrange for Beckett to have an extremely entrancingly erotic evening. The opening of the tango, after all, is a perfect summary of their current situation. She walks away, he chases after her, she tries to evade, elude and escape. And now he's going to catch her, and when he does, and when she's (finally, finally) in his arms, he's intending to keep her. In the dance and out of it. Even if she is sulking, it's Christmas, and Christmas is about forgiveness.

Not that Beckett seems to do Christmas, or forgiveness for that matter. He has no idea why she's still so tense around him: he really, really meant his apology, but he's not going to grovel, and anyway he doesn't think that it's lack of apology that's keeping her buried in reserve and chill serenity. He sometimes wonders if he shouldn't just sweep her into his arms and try kissing hell out of her, but the possibility of extra ventilation by way of bullet holes has, up till now, put him off. However, she can't shoot him at the Doctors' Dance – and even if she does there will be, as the name implies, several hundred doctors present who can fix him.

He thinks about tango, and some of the moves, and then has a large glass of ice water and tries not to think about tango, the moves, and Beckett in a slinky, high-slit dress with sex-on-stilts heels.

* * *

Beckett arrives at the dance studio for the second lesson in a mood of considerable confusion which is only alleviated by her still surging irritation with Lanie at dragooning her into this. Her confusion has nothing to do with work and everything to do with Castle's air of happy expectation. Of course, he's had an air of happy Christmas expectation since Thanksgiving (and before that he had an equally annoying air of happy Thanksgiving expectation), so this is not new, but it seems to have acquired a rather dreamier aspect today. He'd spent most of the day lost in his head: big blue eyes hazed and sleepy. Not that she'd been looking. Not at all. Well, not much. Not often. Not at all. And he definitely hadn't looked sexy-cute, as if he'd just woken up from a really good dream, like that. Not at all. And she doesn't want to see if he _would_ look like that when he woke up, either. Nope.

So it's quite ridiculous that she's been remembering exactly how he looked all day. Until she got here, when it was rapidly submerged in floods of irritation, not improved when she also remembers that Lanie is insisting on dress shopping afterwards. She is not going to get anything that even _hints_ at Christmas. Black. That'll do. Or midnight blue. Absolutely not red, or green, or any cheerfully festive shade, or anything at all like the one in her dream.

The second lesson is no more pleasing than the first. The professional is perfectly happy with her steps, but complains that she's putting no more emotion into it than an ice cube would. That suits Beckett just fine. Emotions are not her thing, and she's certainly not wasting her limited supply on a dance teacher. Civility will do just fine.

"This is an emotional dance," the instructor tries again. "Anger, love, pain. You have to show emotion to dance it well."

"I'm concentrating on the steps," Beckett points out, which is totally true, and ends the conversation instantly. The instructor, recognising an immovable will, desists, and simply concentrates on her steps, posture, and movement. Beckett's six-inch touch-me-not exclusion zone ensures that he is very, very careful about the most overt moves.

 _Castle wouldn't be careful_ , her ill-intentioned mind whispers. _Castle would be sexy. Sensual. Hot._

 _Shut up. I'm not listening_.

Regrettably, her undisciplined body is listening. Then she looks at the instructor and internally shudders. It has the same effect as a cold shower would, which lasts till the end of the lesson.

"C'mon, Kate. We got to go shopping. I made us an appointment. Hurry up."

"I don't" – Lanie glares. "O- _kay_." _But I don't wanna._

Every street seems to be full of Christmas lights and decorations and shop windows full of Christmas presents, light and cheer. Beckett wishes she were full of alcohol.

"We're here."

This shop does not have windows full of Christmas decoration. It has windows _stuffed_ with Christmas costumes. It looks like it robbed the whole of Broadway of every Christmas dance costume going. Beckett starts backing away, till Lanie notices, grabs her wrist very ungently and tugs her forward.

"See that red one?"

Sure Beckett does. "No." She is not wearing a skimpy Santa dress.

They go in, Lanie pointing out all sorts of bright, cheerful and Christmas themed dresses, all of which Beckett refuses in short, terse tones. The salesperson oozes up. Lanie begins an enthusiastic conversation with her, punctuated by gestures at Beckett. The salesperson also looks enthusiastic.

Beckett is not enthusiastic. She drifts away, and flicks vaguely through the racks. Maybe she should get a drop dead dress. Seeing as she has no dresses left, thanks to Lanie. Might as well. Surely there'll be some nice man with brains at the Doctors' Dance? There should be plenty of brains. She flicks a bit less vaguely, concentrating on black and – ah, there. Dark midnight blue, with silver tracery up the hem.

"I'll try this one," she announces, interrupting the detailed discussion of the others.

"Surely. It's gorgeous."

She is ushered into a changing room, and rapidly dons it. She stares at herself in the mirror, slips her feet back into her shoes, and stares some more. Then she twirls, and stares even more.

"Kate, get your skinny ass out here so we can see," Lanie orders.

She walks out. Lanie's jaw drops. The salesperson stares.

"Girl, you're buying it." Lanie turns to the salesperson. "We'll take it." Back to Beckett. "Go take it off. It's my turn to try on dresses. You're done, girlfriend." Clearly Beckett doesn't get a say in this purchase. The saleswoman wraps it, divests Beckett of her card and a considerable number of dollars, and smiles sappily.

"You'll be stunning."

Lanie tries on several dozen dresses, all of which accentuate her assets. Finally she settles on a bright scarlet with flippy fringing at the hem, which Beckett manages not to tell her makes her look like she's auditioning for Santa's Christmas squeeze. For all Beckett knows, that's the idea. Anyway, she seems delighted with it.

"I'm gonna wear this tomorrow to the lesson," she enthuses. "Knock 'em dead."

"You do that," Beckett agrees.

"You could wear yours."

"Nope. Keeping it for the dance." Lanie pouts at her. "No pouting. And no telling anyone at the precinct I'm coming to your stupid dance. Or that I bought a dress. Not that I did anything except pay 'cause you wouldn't let me put it back."

"It's the first dress you've bought in years. Perfect for catching men."

"I _don't want_ to catch any men."

"No, you want _one_ man to catch you."

"I do not!"

Lanie simply smirks knowingly.

"Anyway, no telling anyone." Beckett finally finds her glare, and directs it firmly at Lanie. She has no idea where the glare had gone for the last three days or so. Probably somewhere warm, sunny, and not Christmassy. It probably took the whiskey, too. Hers surely seems to have disappeared.

"Okay," Lanie says very reluctantly, and acquires a sulky expression. "I'll tell everyone about my dress instead."

"Fine. Just leave me out of it."

Friday's lesson progresses much as Thursday's had. Beckett vacates the studio with a sigh of relief matched and then exceeded by the sigh of relief from the receptionist and dance teachers. She is no easier to deal with today than Wednesday, and the gun was very off-putting.

"See, I was right," Lanie says very smugly. "You can dance just fine. You picked up the steps really well. Now, if you just loosen up a bit, you'll be great. It's not you who's supposed to be poker stiff."

"Lanie!"

Lanie's lubriciously lecherous leer widens. "I've seen that dress, girlfriend."

"I'm only going because my so-called friend – and you aren't, okay?" – Lanie does not seem in the slightest distressed by this demotion – "threatened to drag me out in cuffs at gunpoint." Beckett huffs grumpily. "I still don't wanna go."

"Too bad," Lanie flips back callously. "You're going. If you complain any more I'll invite Ryan and Esposito to be your dance partners."

"You do that and I'll shoot _all_ of you."

"You need some fun. Stop whining. I'll pick you up at seven tomorrow. I already booked a car. We're going out in style."

"I've got plenty of style."

"Really? I haven't seen you get closer to style than a Stylo pen in months. Just like you won't come out, won't date, and won't do anything fun. So you make sure you're properly prettied up. Or I will."

That's a threat if ever Beckett heard one.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Castle, it's me."

"What is it this time, Lanie?" Castle says suspiciously. "Haven't you got me into enough prospective trouble already?"

"You won't be in trouble," Lanie grins. "By the time I've finished with our girl, she'll be happier to see you than Santa."

"Beckett hates Santa."

"See, you're already in credit."

"How? She hates Santa, and she doesn't like me much either."

"Sure she does. Anyway, I got a whole lot of doctor dance partners lined up for Kate."

"You did what?"

Lanie sniggers evilly. "I might have let slip that the real Nikki Heat is coming to the dance."

"You did _what?_ Are you crazy?"

"And then I might have shown one of them a photo of Kate."

"Scratch that. You're not just crazy, you're clinically insane."

"Nope. Just tired of watching her pretend she doesn't like you."

"I'm clinically insane," Castle says plaintively. "Because I'm hearing voices that make no sense at all."

"You just put on that tuxedo and get your excellent ass along to the dance about… hmmm… half past seven. We're turning up at seven. By half-past, she'll be desperate."

"She'll shoot you. Then me."

"Fraidy cat. Anyway, you think I'm that dumb? Of course she won't have her gun. I'll make sure of it." Another evil snigger. "You _shall_ go to the dance, Cinderricka. You'll dance with the beautiful girl and then on the stroke of midnight" –

"She'll disappear."

"No, you kiss her."

"I'm dead. I am so dead. Why am I listening to you? Why don't I just buy myself a home-operated guillotine for Christmas and test it out? It would be less painful."

"Shuttup. This is my Christmas present to both of you. Kate's moping and you're moping. We're all sick of you both moping. I'll see you tomorrow night."

Lanie cuts the call. Castle takes himself off to his study and constructs a whole series of scenes in which Nikki Heat, dressed as Santa, goes on a machine gun rampage and massacres Manhattan's entire population of doctors and MEs – and Rook. He doesn't feel any better when he's written it down.

He does feel better when he speculates on Beckett's potential dresses. A lot better, especially when he does a little gentle Googling and finds some designs which his imagination immediately places on her. Then his imagination takes them off her.

Then he goes for a very cold shower, which barely helps at all.

* * *

On Saturday, Beckett goes running. It's that or target shooting, and she doesn't have a headshot of Lanie – or indeed a real Lanie – to use as the targets. Her run is not improved by the vile weather – it's sleeting, the crowds of happy Christmas shoppers getting in her way, or her general disinclination to go out. She could drink a lovely glass of wine in a lovely hot bath with a lovely book and not go out at all.

If she does that, however, Lanie will make mincemeat of her, and Lanie is possibly the only person in the world of whom Beckett is – occasionally – genuinely scared. So instead of staying in her lovely hot bubbly bath, full of scents and lotions, she drags herself out.

And then she has her own personal epiphany. The best defence is a good offense. Or alternatively: go big or go home. She's going to go big. And she will be _untouchable_. No-one will dare come near her. And then she _will_ go home. Alone.

She puts on her make-up with care: contouring and shading: her eyes huge, dark, and feline-slanted; lashes elongated and pitch black, stunning and overtly sexual; lips blood-red and full. No jewellery: not even her chain and its ring; no watch. Her hair is smoothed into a straight fall: no artifice.

She dresses with equal care: no pantyhose; tiny dark blue silk panties, no bra. The dress has a light bra built in. She slips it on, settles it, and slides her feet into the midnight blue shoes: a T-strap across the top of her foot; five inch heels. She covers the whole with a heavy, dark silk wrap, picks up a dress purse in the same dark shade, and is ready only a moment ahead of Lanie's call, regarding the safe where her gun is stowed with regret.

"Let's go have some fun," Lanie enthuses. "Drinks, food and men. What more could you want?"

"Peace, quiet and no men," Beckett answers acidly.

"You stop that or I'll smack you. This is your Christmas present and you're going to enjoy it."

Beckett huffs. "I had a good book at home."

Lanie groans. "See, that there is why you're as dried up as a prune. The room'll be stuffed full of hot men with brains. Just what you like. Stop thinking about books and start thinking about dancing, or better still some horizontal dancing. Use it or lose it."

"Not physically possible."

"Who's the doctor here?"

"Shut up. Ugh."

The car drops them right at the entrance to the hotel where the dance is being held. Even the weather has decided to inflict Christmas upon Beckett: it's snowing hard, and the streets are starting to whiten. The temperature is plunging lower than Lanie's barely-discreet neckline, and Beckett is grateful for her wrap, into which she is huddled. She would be deeply annoyed to learn that a few flakes of snow are sparkling in her dark hair: tiny Christmas lights.

The ballroom is already close to full. Lanie emits a not-very muffled whoop, throws her own wrap into the coat check, and –

What the _hell_?

Lanie has just thrown herself into the arms of a six-foot-four muscle man, who is _exceedingly_ happy to have her there, from his expression. How has Lanie got a date? Beckett thought that they were paired up…

"Lanie, what" –

"Kate, this is Carl. He was Mr July. He's a firefighter." Lanie leers happily.

"You have a _date_?"

"Sure I do. I have dates. It's only you who doesn't have dates."

"So you brought a date and I'm flying solo?"

"Yep. I didn't want to cramp your style."

"You said I had no style!"

"Now's your chance to find some style. We're on table twenty. See you in a moment."

If Beckett had had the slightest inkling of suspicion that Lanie was going to pull that trick, she'd have invited her own date. God knows who.

 _You know who_ , her mind jibes. _You know exactly who'd come with you at no notice. Bet he can dance_.

 _Shut up_. She certainly would not have invited Castle. Probably. Maybe.

 _You so would have_.

Beckett stalks into the ballroom, locates table twenty in one fell glare and swoop, and stalks to it. The ballroom is decorated with festive ghastliness: tinsel, glitter, tiny lights – she hates all of it. And it's warm. Christmas should be snowy and cold. (Her expression should achieve that without trouble.) She's already overheating in her wrap, and _extremely_ reluctantly she takes it off, folds it neatly, and places it on a chair. Then she regards the room with considerable disfavour. It is full of men in tuxedos, and rather fewer women, most of whom appear to be attached to men. The dance floor is already busy.

Lanie watches Beckett stalk off, whips out her phone, and texts Castle. _Good to go_. After that, she and Mr-mmmmmmm-come-rub-sun-lotion-on-me-July, perfectly content with each other, wander in, slowly, greeting all of Lanie's many friends and acquaintances as they do.

There is a God. There is a bar. The bar has alcohol. Beckett stands up to her full height – six-foot-two in these shoes – posture perfectly upright, and aims for it. Her aim is firmly directed at the potential for vodka.

The bar is no more than twenty feet away. She makes it all of four feet before she is accosted by a rotund personage aged approximately sixty and approximately six inches shorter than she.

"Do you want to dance?" he asks.

Beckett simply favours him with her best icily glacial stare. He crumples. She takes two more steps, radiating frigid dislike for the whole wide world.

"You're Nikki Heat!" a younger male exclaims. "Look, it's Nikki Heat!"

"Wow!" someone whistles. "Look at _that_."

Very shortly there is a crowd around her. Everyone wants to dance with her. Everyone wants to talk about Nikki Heat. And far too many of them have read the book. Those that haven't are now suggesting that they want it for – naturally – Christmas. And she still hasn't got a drink, which does nothing whatsoever to improve her boiling-over temper and her hatred of Christmas.

"Nikki, dance with me."

"No, me."

"Neither of them. Come with me."

Beckett's temper snaps. " _I am not Nikki Heat_ ," she growls. "I am Detective Beckett and if you don't _get out of my way right now_ I'll arrest the lot of you for harassment. Now _move_!"

They move. One of them looks like he might cry.

The same scene repeats another five steps further on, and Beckett's fractured fury does not improve when she notices that there is a fore-wave of gossip preceding her. Everyone is looking at her. She doesn't much care for that, and she certainly does not care _at all_ for the blocking of her path to the bar. Everyone wants to speak to her. _Naked Heat_ appears to be the doctors' popular novel of choice this month. She fights her way through the crowd, coldly angry and absolutely certain that Lanie (who will very shortly be _dead_ Lanie) leaked the information, and finally attains the bar.

The bar does not have neat vodka. The bar has soft drinks and Christmas cocktails of lurid hues and dumb names. Beckett is not, under any circumstances whatsoever, prepared to let the phrase _Santa's Screaming Orgasm_ pass her lips. Nor will she utter _Erotic Elfin Eggnog_. And most certainly not _Sex on the Sleigh_. On the other hand, she needs a drink desperately.

"A _Jinglebell Gin Fizz_ ," she requests. Possibly as a result of the blaze in her eyes, one appears in double quick time. Beckett downs a large slug, demands another, and takes both away. Her path back to her table clears quite amazingly rapidly as those irritants who has accosted her the first time note her granite-searing glare and get out of her way.

Unfortunately that leaves a large number of irritants who hadn't been reduced to splinters the first time, who form a second wave of accosters, one of whom, rather larger and stronger than the rest, has removed her drinks and is drawing her out on to the dance floor. She is just about to unleash the wrath of Beckett, which is liable to clear the ballroom and destroy any Christmas spirit within a hundred yards, when there's a voice behind her.

"Sorry I'm late. Traffic was _terrible_." The wave breaks and rapidly retreats. An arm arrives around Beckett's waist, and a very familiar cologne assails her nostrils. "These people bothering you, Beckett?"

She's never been so glad to see him, ever.

* * *

Castle arrives precisely on seven-thirty, checks his cashmere overcoat, and doesn't bother looking for Lanie before heading straight on into the ballroom. He leans on a handy pillar, and glances round. He can't see Beckett. He can see a crowd. He wanders towards it, Beckett being apparently invisible, and hears an exceedingly familiar tone of frozen ire, tending to fury, as the voice is moving towards the dance floor. Time to swoop in and save the day.

"Sorry I'm late," he says smoothly. "Traffic was _terrible_." He stares hard at the pressing crowd of doctors who've clearly not seen a beautiful woman since pre-med. Much to his satisfaction, the vast majority fall back, generally with looks of resignation. All of that appeals greatly to Castle's unusually possessive feelings. He's just discovered that he really does not like Beckett being surrounded by other men. The only man who should be surrounding Beckett is quite definitely him.

So he does, by putting an arm around her waist in a very possessive fashion, glaring round at the few remaining idiots who seem to think they've got a chance, and asking very clearly if they're bothering her. The crowd dissipates in instants. Whether that's his glare or hers, Castle doesn't care. They're gone. Good. Amazingly, he is also not dead or maimed. Double good.

And then he gets a good look at her dress, and all vocabulary drains from his mind, along with all the blood from his brain. That's a _dress_?

It's midnight blue. It has no back whatsoever. It has two spaghetti straps – very, very narrow straps – which are attached to a very, very narrow single strap across her back. It is perfectly obvious that she can't possibly be wearing a bra, because the non-existent back is non-existent all the way down to the swell of her ass. The skirt is diagonally cut: an inch below her knee on one side, five inches above the knee on the other. Which would be fine – _so_ fine – except that it's slit on the short side to only just on the right side of tasteful. There is a delicate silver tracery around the hem of the skirt. Whatever she has on her feet, which he can't see and wouldn't focus on even if he could, she's standing as tall as he does. Which means, his suddenly rigid body tells him, that if she was against him, she'd be perfectly positioned.

Oh God. He thinks of ice and snow, which is appropriate at Christmas time. But surely this is his present, and it's not _fair_ that he can't unwrap it. Any good the icy thoughts have done is lost. His arm tightens round her.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"Rescuing you."

"I don't need rescued."

"Okay, rescuing them. This way there's less blood on the dance floor. You can't dance if it's slippery underfoot."

He brings her out on to the dance floor without letting go of her.

"I don't want to dance."

"Sure you do."

"I hate dancing."

"Only because you haven't been dancing with me," Castle says suavely, and brings her into position. "I'm a very good dancer. Try not to tread on my toes, and we'll be fine. Just follow my lead." His hand slips on to her back, the other collects her left to bring her into position.

Beckett certainly wouldn't admit out loud her total relief that Castle has showed up. She also wouldn't admit that his arm feels surprisingly _right_ around her, unlike that medical meathead. And she is absolutely never ever going to tell him that his warm, large hand on the naked skin of her back is sending sizzles straight down her synapses.

This is _nothing_ like the lessons. On the other hand, it's suddenly an awful lot like her dream. Certain muscles clench hard, and the ghastly spectre of Christmastide recedes.

The band strikes up again, and Castle smoothly steers her into the dance, taking the lead without apparently needing to think about it. Beckett concentrates very firmly on her steps and tries equally firmly not to think about the little sparkles of arousal flaring out from Castle's hand and flickering all around her body.

"Loosen up, Beckett," Castle murmurs in a dark, furry baritone. "I'll lead. I've got you." Her eyes jerk up to meet his. The soft tone doesn't match the roiling heat in his eyes, or the possessive grip on her hand and back. He smiles, large, somehow very male, and dangerously sexy in formal black tie. "Just follow me for a change. You never know, you might even like it." He moves, and perforce she has to follow: her feet suddenly needing no instruction. All she has to do is relax, let him lead her, and ignore any Christmas-themed items or visions.

Oh God. And it was all going so bearably, too. Beckett prays to all the gods, saints and probably all the devils too that Castle hasn't noticed either the direction of her gaze or the item that she's spotted. She tries to turn them, but Castle, having had the lead ever since he swept her into his arm and on to the floor, has no intention of relinquishing it now.

"I'm leading," he purrs. Oh, _hell_. He's noticed. "Now, isn't that interesting? I seem to have led us under some mistletoe." His eyes dance and sparkle as he keeps them more or less in place. Beckett cringes. So she tells herself. She _hates_ mistletoe and the expectations and she definitely absolutely doesn't want kisses. So it is quite ridiculous that the sparkle in Castle's bright blue eyes is skimming down her nerves and tickling every erogenous zone from neck to knees. Quite ridiculous.

It's even more ridiculous to be deeply disappointed that he turns her away across the floor. Still, it's not like she wanted kissed. No. She definitely hadn't wanted kissed.

Not like he would have pecked her in public, anyway. A kiss like the one in her dream, now… _no_!

Castle is having an extremely hard time dancing with Beckett, firstly because she fits just perfectly into his arms and rhythm, secondly because he really, really wants to dance her out of the door to some quiet, solitary place and kiss hell out of her, and thirdly because he is, quite simply, extremely hard. The dress is _inflammatory_ , and he is totally inflamed. No wonder she'd been surrounded. He _wants_ to take her to that same quiet, solitary place and peel it from her, leave her naked and hot and gasping and ready and _his_ ; but he won't. Not yet.

She's not in the mood, yet. She dislikes, as a bare minimum of her astonishing cynicism about the season, presents, tinsel, trees, gifts, Santa, reindeer (though if he offered her one grilled she'd likely accept – come to think of it, she'd accept a grilled Santa too), snow, presents, wrapping, shops, gifts, and, clearly, Christmas dances.

So, he needs to take this slow. Make her forget the _Christmas_ aspects, and bring her round to the _other_ aspects. The tango is not a notably Christmas-flavoured dance. It _is_ a notably sexual dance. All he has to do is act on the flaring heat he can see in her eyes: the sparking specks of gold in the hazel, the nibble on her lip that she doesn't even know she's making. Especially, she didn't realise just how much she'd relaxed and leaned into him. He'd expected the confident strut of elusiveness, of anger, of avoidance. There hadn't been any of that. She hadn't, in fact, pulled away at all: not when he first put his arm around her, not when she snarked about not needing rescued, and not when they began to dance.

Well, well, well. Maybe his Christmas-hating, snarky, chilly Beckett isn't so chilly after all. Christmas-hating and snarky – that might just be built into her DNA.

He suavely steers her around the dance floor, failing at any stage to point out that the music has changed three times, not encouraging Beckett to try any of the more blatantly erotic steps – though a piernazo would be just plain _fabulous_ – for now. Those can wait for later. For private. For somewhere that they can give in to the heat that's there between them, banked embers simply waiting for new fuel.

Her indrawn breath and abruptly panicked gaze, both swiftly hidden, would have told him that they've reached another Christmas-crisis point – if only he hadn't been perfectly well aware of it already. He's aware of at least six dangling points of mistletoe, and he intends to circulate under every single one.

Ah. _That's_ interesting. He flirts, intimates, and generally leads her on – and then doesn't kiss her: and there's a small almost-droop and a definite blink of disappointment. Ah. Mm. He sweeps them back into the dance, and this time it's different. _She's_ different. In fact, he thinks that she's annoyed. Her heels click sharply, her steps are precise, she's showing her feelings in every clean-cut movement. She turns away, a step sequence of escape, but he is not having that in the dance or in reality, takes the corresponding sequence to bring her back, stop her hard and turn her in: caught, held, trapped.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Caught you," he purrs darkly – and suddenly, shockingly, everything changes: her eyes flare hot and her whole attitude alters. Confidence, almost arrogance, seeps into her posture. He responds instantly, matching her arrogance and exuding male dominance, falling into the spirit of the tango. He pulls her in harder than he would have a moment ago: confident and sure.

"You can't keep me," she asserts.

"Oh, I can," he rasps, and holds her much closer, more tightly. "I just won't let you go." She tries to pull away, and seems surprised that she can't. "No running. You run far too much. You're staying here."

Her eyes flash. "You can't keep me," she snaps, but he knows it's a façade, because she was disappointed when he didn't try to kiss her.

"Just watch me," he smiles dangerously. "You can't stop me."

Lanie had _promised_ no gun… and he really, really hopes that's true, because this has just turned _hot_. Well. Hotter. Maybe he's been making a mistake for the last three months. Maybe for the last nine. Maybe he should have taken a lead much sooner. Maybe – he could have ended up as a colander, because for the first three months she'd rather have shot him than not, and the next three she'd have shot him on sight, and for most of the last three she's walked so wide around him he'd have needed to have Mister Fantastic's arms to reach her.

Her glare lasers out. Castle doesn't flinch, and turns her into the steps of the dance, moving her on before they cause a commotion. The dance floor is busy now, and the band and noise level loud. No-one is going to hear his murmurings.

"You can't run away now," he rasps. "Just like the dance itself. You're caught, and that's what you wanted." She shakes her head, and her heels rap down in contradiction. "You knew I'd catch you, all dressed up in a square inch of silk and midnight with starlight gleaming at the hem. You wanted to be caught."

She spins away from him, steps perfect, and he spins her back and pulls her forward, and this time her leg rises in gancho to wrap around his calf: his hand spreads from her bare back to leave fingertips at the very edge of the swell of her breast and his hips press briefly into hers to leave her eyes hot and wild and her breath ruffled, until he returns them to vertical and moves them on.

"Shall I do that again?" he entices, as smooth as sin and twice as silky. "You seemed to like it." She doesn't answer, and her gaze is flicking frantically from him to ceiling back to him. He knows why. "Pretty decorations," he smirks, and deliberately looks both up at the mistletoe and, stepping away from her a fraction, at her in that astonishing dress. He pays particular attention to running his eyes all the way up the long, lithe length of leg revealed by the almost-indecent split. "Someone must have spent a lot of time on them," he adds, returning his gaze to the dangling mistletoe.

She stares at him, and then recovers herself. "Waste of time. It's a parasite, anyway. Latches on to the tree and then steals its nutrients or kills it. Hardly a good symbol of Christmas."

"I like the other meaning," he oozes. "But I'm sure you don't," arrogantly stating her opinion for her. Without waiting for an answer, he moves them on again. Her eyes flash. Beckett doesn't like this game. That's just fine. Castle likes this game, but then again he's got the endgame firmly in mind. There is a piece of mistletoe which is dangling in a very convenient place. By the time they've got there, he'll know what the game is: whether it starts at once, or whether he first rescues Beckett to the haven of a bar or a restaurant.

The one matter which is not in doubt is that it will start tonight, because she's _disappointed_ that he's not trying to kiss her, and she's not complaining or mauling him or killing him for touching her. Not that he could have resisted touching her in that unbelievably beautiful wrapping.

* * *

By the fifth trail of mistletoe under which Castle has flirted outrageously and then not followed through, Beckett's emotions of mixed annoyance at Christmas, outright anger with Lanie, unadmitted disappointment that Castle isn't trying to kiss her and conversely considerable arousal at the overt sexuality he has brought to the dance, are at an overspilling boiling point. Consequently, her dancing has improved enormously as she entirely fails to prevent those emotions being expressed in her movement and face, to the extent that, as they arrive under the sixth droop of mistletoe, close to the ballroom wall, she pulls hard away from Castle, who, without appearing to exert any real effort, whips her straight back in to be plastered against him and the motion of the dance makes it totally natural to bring her leg up in piernazo around his hip and it explodes.

His hand slips low into the curve of her spine, he slides them through an unnoticed door and drops his hand to her ass (and oh it feels so good there); presses her close so that she can feel hard, thick arousal to match the hot, wet clenching of her core, and takes her mouth with no gentleness and certainly no apology. She opens for his invasion, her back hitting the wall, and he's where he should be, where he should have been two hours ago: grinding into her and she rolls against him. He slides her feet apart and one hard, strong hand brings her leg back up to curl around his waist: holding her apart with his fingers slipping through the slit in her dress and searching out the delicate skin of her inner thigh, exploring and seducing and his kiss swallows the small mewls and whimpers that she's already emitting as his fingers roam so close and yet not close enough.

Finally. Finally, finally, _finally_ he's remembered what his mouth is for and kissed her _properly_ rather than dancing round under the mistletoe and ignoring it. (Not that she likes mistletoe at all, but she certainly does like these kisses.) She doesn't need Christmas. All she needs and wants are kisses, and then touches, and then…more. Lots more. And if that's greedy, she doesn't give a flying sleigh.

"Don't _tease_ ," she tries to say, but his tongue is stealing all her words, and his hands are _wicked_ : experienced and erotic and she needs _more_ but he's not giving her more, flickering everywhere close but not _right there_ and just like in the dance he's leading and just like in her dream she likes it, wants it, is totally aroused by it and she half-sobs with desire and want and need and _him_.

"We're leaving," Castle states. "Right now. Where's your coat?"

"Wrap," she stutters, "at the table."

"Go get it. We're leaving."

She shouldn't let him tell her what to do, but she hates Christmas dances and hates Christmas and – admit it – she's so wound tight by what he's just done that she needs him to finish because she's right on the edge and it's not fair and certainly not Christmassy that he hasn't given her the rest.

She hastens to the table, Castle no more than an inch behind, collects wrap and purse, doesn't even think about Lanie, and is gathered back into Castle's forcefully protective arm so that not a single doctor comes within a foot of them. The twin glares might have just a little something to do with that, of course.

In the foyer, Castle takes her wrap from her unresisting hands, swathes it round her and takes the opportunity to stroke from nape to slim rear and back up again, finishing with his arm around her shoulders and Beckett tucked in. He plays with soft wisps of hair at her neck as they wait in the coat queue, and murmurs soft evilness into her ear, which seeps downward and puddles hotly between her legs. He only detaches for as long as it takes him to slip his expensive cashmere coat on, regathers her without request or hesitation, and steers her out to a waiting cab, where he gives her address to the driver.

"What?"

"We're going to yours." He ushers her in, curls his arm around her shoulders once more, and puts his other wide palm on her leg, a fraction above her knee. The cab starts.

"There's snow on your hair." He brushes it away, and continues the movement down, back to her slim shoulders, and a little further, fingers draping past her collarbone, tracing the edge of the wrap, slipping secretively beneath to the neckline of the dress, stops a hint above indecency, and slips back to caress her jaw and softly, inexorably, turn her face to his. Her lips part, her tongue peeks out to dampen them, her eyes are dark in the dim light.

He covers her mouth before she can take another breath: deep, sure and certain, as if he has the right to take and possess and keep her; the grip of her jaw firm and certain, keeping her in place for his kiss, the delicate shift of his hand higher on her leg an intimation that sends the heat surging through her once more. She forgets to argue about their destination, or to contradict his easy assumption of control: lost in the scorching relit flames of mutual desire. Her hand wanders over the hard muscle of his quad, and he draws in breath, tension rising as he swells next to her elegant fingers. His kiss becomes harder, more possessive, demanding surrender, and, just as in the dance, she concedes again.

They don't notice the time the taxi takes in the snow-slippery streets, cautiously picking its way to Beckett's apartment; they don't notice the snow falling ever heavier on Manhattan, covering the sidewalks and giving it a beautifully Christmassy gloss. Even if they did notice, Beckett wouldn't appreciate it. High heeled dance shoes and snow do not mix well.

The taxi comes to a halt outside Beckett's apartment. She tries to give the driver the fare, but Castle puts her money firmly back in her lap and pays himself.

"I can pay," she snips crossly.

"I want to," Castle replies. "Think of it as an un-Christmas present. Like an unbirthday present. Or coffee. An essential part of ensuring day-to-day life runs smoothly."

"What?"

"Just suck it up," he says bluntly, exits the cab, opens the other door for her, and silences her incoherent protests (which mostly seem to be _complaining_ that he's paying: why on earth is she _complaining_ about that? No-one else does) with another hard kiss as soon as she steps out and straightens up. He lifts off, doesn't take his arm from around her, and walks them into the lobby of her building, into the elevator, out of the elevator, and then, coolly removing her keys from her purse, walks them into her apartment and kicks the door shut. She hasn't emitted a peep of protest since he kissed her. How convenient. A guaranteed method of stopping Beckett complaining, in the best possible way.

And then he strips her wrap and throws it on to a table, shoves her back against the closed door, pins her hands in his and takes her mouth without compunction, pushing her legs apart and pressing between them; and when she starts to make small sexy noises softens and slips a hand behind her head to bring her closer. His other hand drops to her hip, and hers find his shoulders and lock on his nape. He isn't bending to her mouth today; he doesn't need to lift her; she stands as tall as he does and it is _perfect_. All his Christmases come at once. Well, not _come_ yet. Ladies first.

She doesn't know how they got into a cab. She doesn't really know anything until they're pulling up at her apartment and basely and unfairly Castle isn't letting her pay. She pays her own shot. And then he stops all thought by kissing her yet more – this idea of kissing thought out of her head will have to be stopped but _not now_ – and walking her upstairs and into her apartment while she's still brainless and reeling.

And then he compounds her total confusion by kissing her again until she's making little desperate noises (and she does _not_ , absolutely _not_ , sound like a small child waiting for a present. Beckett does not do waiting for presents. Presents (hers) are unnecessary) and then wrapping her into him in a very pleasingly muscular fashion and still kissing: hard and deep and searching and oh-so-very seductive and she can feel him swollen and hard right where he's sure to fit just perfectly.

They might have been dancing this evening, but in truth they've been dancing for months, and it's time to decide whether she's going to keep dancing.

Hell, yeah.

Her hand slips down over his back, strokes more firm muscle which she will quite definitely unwrap because presents (which she doesn't need) don't just occur at Christmas and anyway this can be a late birthday present, and ends up planted firmly on his excellently shaped ass. She squeezes gently. His hand on her hip becomes a hand on her ass and somehow they're even closer together than they had been a moment ago.

She pulls away from his mouth, not without a little regret (he is _very_ good with his tongue: why couldn't he use it like that a little more often rather than _talking_ all the time), and slips around to his jaw and then provides a mischievous nip on his ear followed by a wicked swirl of tongue just inside the shell. Castle gasps, tightens his grip on her, and then proceeds to return the compliment by dipping his head to her exposed collarbones (where did her wrap go? She didn't take it off – did she?) and then moving slowly and teasingly lower to the edge of her beautiful dress.

She is sure she didn't think about her next move, but somehow her leg is wrapped around his waist but this isn't about the _tango_. Oh no. This is very certainly about a much more intimate and private dance. She rolls against him to be as close as very thin fabric allows: the skirt opening at the slit to be out of the way, and Castle's clever, naughty fingers are exploring and – _ohhhh_ – finding the zipper and undoing the fastening and – _ooohhhh yes more of that_ – loosening the neckline and if she simply unwinds her leg for just the shortest, tiniest instant it'll all just, well, _fall off_.

Who needs presents falling off sleighs (and probably breaking) or down chimneys (ditto)? Dresses falling off her, courtesy of Castle's erotically educated fingers, is a far more desirable outcome than any of that, in Beckett's (jaundiced) view.

And then she has no view at all. Her eyes have shut themselves in instinctive reaction because Castle has his mouth on her breasts and just _don't stop Castle_. He's making growling, sexy noises which are vibrating right through her and _how_ is she not in bed right now already because the only thing holding her up is Castle. Her knees have gone south for the winter, and for the first time since December 1 she doesn't want to join them. He suckles, and the sensation goes straight down to her core: she gasps and curves to him, and he does it again, and again.

Castle is undertaking explorations for which he had been hoping for the opportunity for some considerable time. This is the best Christmas present _ever_. Beckett's breasts are even more beautiful uncovered than he had fantasised, and he gets to _worship_ them. He could adore at this altar for ever, and, deep in the back of his mind where she won't spot it, he intends to. Of course, the altar of Beckett's body has more than just this area… but for now, when her head has dropped back and her body arched and she's emitting small sexy whimper-gasps and wanting more, this area will surely do. Christmas is traditionally the season of generosity and giving, after all; and in some respects Castle is a highly traditional man, so generosity is exactly what Beckett shall be given. The fact that he will enjoy it immensely too is entirely irrelevant.

On the other hand… or more accurately lip… this would all be a great deal more pleasant if he didn't need at least one hand to prop Beckett up. He straightens up, very briefly, casts a glance around, spots a door which has a slightly more feminine flavour of décor behind it, hoists Beckett up to a very kissable height, which causes her to wrap those utterly gorgeous legs around him, and conveys her there.

Beckett's bedroom, which Castle has never previously seen, is as spare and undecorated as the rest of her apartment. On the other hand, in his opinion it doesn't require decoration as long as it contains Beckett, a bed, and him; possibly with a floor which can be decorated with clothes. Fortunately, all of those items are present. He intends to make good use of them.

Beckett's feet have arrived on the ground, still in their sky-high-heels, which means, much to Castle's disappointment, that her legs are no longer wrapped around his middle. On the other hand, her perfect breasts are still pressed against his chest and – oh. _Ohhhh_. His bow tie is gone. His shirt is mysteriously open and he really hopes that he can find all the studs again because Alexis had given him them and – oh, she's dropped them on the nightstand, phew – and oh, God, they're skin to skin and _how_ has he never done this before? He'd slide his shirt off, but then he'd have to stop having his arms around Beckett and stroking her gorgeous skin and he'd have to take his hand off her glorious ass and she might stop wiggling in that astonishingly erotic pattern and he can't bear to lose any of that right now.

He can't bear to lose any of that _ever_. His Christmas list has just shortened dramatically. It now has one item on it. Beckett. Two minutes ago, it had Beckett plus a few other things: a toy helicopter to keep his existing one company; a mildly tongue in cheek wish that his sales would always exceed Patterson's; his favourite aftershave; some silly socks…. Now it has Beckett. Naked Beckett, clothed Beckett, any flavour of Beckett as long as she's _his_ Beckett: it's the only thing he really, really wants, for Christmas and for ever.

He kisses her _hard_ and all emotional meanderings are incinerated in the hot flashfire of the astonishing sexual connection. She shoves his shirt away and perforce he lets go for an instant while it falls: snatching her back as soon as it's gone; she's undone his belt and button and zipper and the dress pants of his tux fall to the floor: he steps out of them and toes off his shoes and he can't _think_ : he can only feel and sense and act and react.

Her mouth plunders his and refuses absolutely to leave, which is fine by him. If she wants to take the lead for a while, he'll just lie back – yes. Um. Lie. Why _exactly_ are they standing up when there is a lovely big bed right here? Regardless of his intentions a second ago, he tumbles her on to the bed and, not entirely accidentally, lands over her and _oh oh oh_ she's opened so he's _right there_ and she's _right there_ and just plain _right_ and why why _why_ do they still have any clothes on at all because his boxers and her panties are simply _in the way_ and _oh oh oh Beckett_ if she does _that_ again those panties will never be wearable again and if he rips them apart she might kill him so he'd better just take them away and he's fumbling as if he were seventeen again and frantically he pulls them down and then his own and then without any further ado or even foreplay he's hard up against her soaked scorching centre and then inside.

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers, especially guests who can't be thanked directly._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 _Oh fuck_ he's perfect. Just on the right side of almost too big, too much: and she'd _meant_ to tease and play and wind him up to almost-explosion because that's what he's done all night so far and it was her turn to leave him gasping and brain-fried and devoid of thought but she'd only just gotten started when he pushed her down and then, well, he was just so perfectly positioned and she couldn't wait any more and then they were naked and now oh _God_ he's over her and inside her and it is _perfect_. She succumbs to the glorious sensation and keeps on kissing him and he reaches down between them and touches intimately on just the right, perfect, exquisitely sensitive spot and she explodes.

Once her eyelids have enough energy to open, even if the rest of her has no energy at all, she realises that Castle is still on top of her. Even though he's large and heavy (in the best possible muscular way) and squashing her, it feels _good_. And he's warm. It's December, and her apartment is not that warm, and she is naked and not under her coverlet. She wiggles just a little to be wholly comfortable and totally enclosed, and closes her eyes again. Who needs festive dances? Private dances are just fine.

After a few more seconds of delightful warmth and aroma of large, sexy male, which is filling her nose, which is buried in his neck, Beckett realises that said neck is in a very convenient place to essay a small nibble. So she does.

Reaction is very pleasingly instant. His eyes fly open and his embrace tightens: he rolls over so she's on top (she likes being on top, too) and then lifts her so she's sitting astride him and _oh that's sneaky_ he's still inside her and the light in his eyes says she's a living, breathing goddess. It _worships_.

Worship should be encouraged.

She wiggles sensuously, which is at least as much to encourage herself as him, and the light in his eyes blazes. His wide hands come up to palm both breasts at once, and _ohhhh_ that feels so very, very good. He couldn't do this under some pathetic droop of mistletoe. Kisses are just not enough, now she knows just how excellently erotic he can be. Kisses will never be enough again.

Though she can stand plenty of _that_ sort of kisses. And that placement. And that oh-so-very-good use of mouth and teeth and suckling. Oh yes. More, please. Lots more. These sparkles, presently tingling down her nerves and collecting at her core, are so very much better than sparkly tinsel or glitter on trees.

Castle is finding that Beckett – hot, sexy, totally aroused Beckett – has an amazing effect on him, and he is having an equally amazing effect on her. She's the shining star leading him on. Well, not so much leading on as turning on, to be honest, but he's cool with that too. He stops playing with his wonderful present, pulls her down so she's draped over him, and pets and strokes gently, cosseting and cradling. He's going to take really good care of this gift, which means _not_ just absolutely fabulous sex but considerably more.

On the other hand… absolutely fabulous sex is a pretty good place to start.

He sits Beckett back up again so that he has space to explore and discover, and finds that she is equally keen on having space to explore and discover. Fairly shortly mutual exploration and discovery turns to delightful consummation.

"We should go dancing more often," Castle drawls in an insinuating baritone, lying with Beckett snuggled in his arms and spread cosily over his ample chest. He could hardly be happier if St Nicholas appeared right in front of him and let him take selfies. Though he'd need to get dressed and he really doesn't want to get dressed if Beckett's right here snuggled against his naked body and naked herself.

"Mm?" she purrs, which reverberates right through his sternum and wraps around his heart.

"Maybe not at Doctors' Dances, though."

"No," she hums. Her hair tickles softly at his neck: as lightly as falling snow. He plays with a tendril, winding it round his finger and unwinding it, nuzzling into the delicate scent. Her fingers are gently motionless on his shoulder. Beckett is a very un-fidgety person. Strangely, she isn't objecting to him fidgeting.

"You're good at it." She makes a mildly disgusted noise. "What?"

"Lanie gave me _dancing lessons_ as a present," she blurts out indignantly. "What was she on?"

"Dancing lessons?" Castle says disingenously. "Didn't you learn to dance at school, or university?"

"No," she grumps. "Because I _don't like_ dancing."

"You liked it fine with me," he murmurs provocatively, and kisses just below her ear. "So what made you change your mind?"

Beckett squirms, and doesn't answer. Castle tips her chin up, so he can see her face. It's pink.

"You _wanted_ to dance with me," he says happily. There is an indeterminate grumbling mutter. "You did." He smirks evilly. "Why, Detective Beckett, you've been hiding things. Keeping secrets." Her cheeks flare hot scarlet, and she tries to escape. "Don't run away. I don't like it when you run away from me," he pouts.

"Don't _push_ , then." There's a tiny tinge of irritation to her voice, which tells Castle he's gone far enough. He wriggles a little, and pets soothingly.

"Okay. No pushing. But no running away, either. Just stay here and stop trying to escape." He strokes down her spine. "Stay with me," he entices.

She doesn't answer in words, but curls in again, and lays an arm over him. He'd sounded so hopeful that she doesn't point out that it's her apartment, which she stays in, and he visits. Not that there has been much visiting in the last few months. However, visiting of this sort should be encouraged, and should certainly not be confined to once per year. This visitor should come often. She might even agree to go dancing with him, because (not that she's going to say so out loud) dancing with Castle was really, really good, and she doesn't only mean the tango.

"And come dancing with me again. I like dancing with you." He pauses. "I especially like it when we end up here." His hand slips all the way down her back and palms her rear.

She flexes into his touch, and purrs softly again, "I like that too." Unlike Christmas, which is an artificial construct invented by storeowners to boost their profits. She does not like Christmas. And Castle being here, large and warm and thoroughly sexy beneath her, does not change that.

On the other hand, he's a great distraction from Christmas. She wiggles seductively over him, ensuring that she covers every last inch of his torso, and forgets about all matters Yuletide in the hot rush of matters distinctly unholy. He feels so good: hot in all the right ways; hard in all the right places; strong around her and full within her. She doesn't need Christmas presents. She just needs Castle present.

And then Castle is very definitely present and Beckett stops thinking about anything except how nice a present Castle is; and then she stops thinking at all because the sensations have drowned her brain.

"My Beckett," Castle mumbles into her ear, and holds her close. "My Beckett." She ignores the ridiculously happy warmth that arises from his possessive tone.

"Mine," she contradicts.

"Mm," he hums comfortably. "So I'm your present?"

"You don't look much like the Ghost of Christmas – Past, Present or Future – to me," she snips, which is absolutely not an answer.

"Surely you don't mean I'm Tiny Tim?" he asks, with a salacious wriggle of his eyebrows and a lecherous leer. She raises an eyebrow in return. "Beckett, Beckett. Santa won't bring you presents if you tell lies. You know I'm not tiny." She splutters at his conceit. "Even in those heels of yours you're only just as tall as me." He smiles seraphically at her splutterings. "Why, what did you think I meant?" he smirks. "Tut-tut," he adds, as her cheeks colour. "You were thinking dirty thoughts."

"Not at all," she fibs.

"You should be, then," he drawls. "Seeing as you're naked and draped over me. I could give you some ideas," and he starts to murmur totally filthy and totally erotic suggestions into her ear.

And then he starts to _do_ them. When his mouth moves down her body she fails to articulate anything that isn't _more yes more Castle_! When his fingers slip and slide and play and enter and find that one perfect spot, she can't form words. And when his tongue starts to take her, licking wickedly, sucking and nipping; she dances to his sexual tune: everything the tango had hinted at explicit in her writhing body and his hard possession, till they shatter, falling and sated, into each other's embrace.

Much later, she wakes, chilled, and slithers back under the comforter. Castle – sneaky rat – has already managed that, and most unfairly didn't leave her as much as an inch. Thief. That's not very Christmassy. Even if she doesn't believe in Christmas, stealing her quilt is not in the spirit of the season. He'd better stop that pretty quickly or he'll be another one getting a lump of coal and a switch. Though being Castle, he'll probably manage to make a best-selling tale out of it, which would be entirely unreasonable.

In his sleep he stretches an arm around her, mutters something that might be _come back_ , and tugs her in. He's cosy, and she's cold. She nestles in, and is shortly beautifully warm. Better than mulled wine for warming her, he is. And he tastes just as good. Her eyes squinch shut again.

Castle wakes up with as much delight as if it's Christmas morning and Santa Claus has left him a whole sleighful of presents. He wouldn't swap, though. Oh no. Beckett is tucked tidily into the cage of his body and that's right where she fits: like the angel fits on the top of the tree. He hopes she won't be feeling too angelic, though. That wouldn't be any fun.

He slides out of bed without Beckett so much as flickering an eyelash, puts the kettle on, has a quick wash and brush up which notably does not involve getting dressed in any respect, and then slithers back into bed to his lovely new gift, which proves to be just as warm and snuggly as he'd ever wanted. It would be nicer if she weren't asleep, though. Much nicer. He's entirely ready to show her just how much nicer it could be.

Somewhat later, Beckett wiggles delightfully, stretches her whole gorgeous length against him, yawns hugely, and finally opens her eyes, very slowly. Sleep still drenches those hazel eyes.

"Hey," she mumbles.

"Hey. C'mere." The last is prompted by her attempt to roll away.

"Minute," she mutters, and exits, shortly to return. Castle, not inclined to appreciate her absence, grabs her as soon as she's back within range and hauls her into him. She raises an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

"Nope. I just like you right here."

She'd noticed. Even if she weren't a detective, she could hardly miss how much he likes her right there. "Uh-huh," she drawls. "I like coffee, which is over there." She gestures in the direction of the kitchen, and swings her magnificent legs past Castle's sightline and out of bed. His eyes follow her knees. Or somewhere approximating to knees. Well, legs. Mostly. It has much the same effect as standing in front of a roaring log fire after a walk in the snow-covered woods, up at the cabin where Christmas can safely be ignored in favour of good food, hot chocolate, and peace on earth. She _almost_ manages goodwill to all men, up at the cabin, mostly because there are no other human beings within ten miles.

"Stay here," Castle murmurs. "I've got something you'll like more than coffee."

There is _nothing_ she likes better than coffee, first thing in the morning – oh. Oh, oh, ooohhhhh. Nearly as good – oh, ohhhhhhh – as good – _don't stop or I will shoot_ – _ohhhhhhh_.

Okay. Better than coffee. Oh, his wicked, wicked mouth. Santa won't come _near_ anyone that naughty. Clearly she should keep Castle close in order to keep Santa away. Mmmmm, yes, perfect idea. And if she were simply to be very naughty too, there will be no chance of having to put up with anything Santa-y at all.

So she is. Turnabout is fair play, and she is certainly inclined to play. Castle likes playing, too, though his language is entirely unsuitable for the playground. Tut-tut. She swirls her tongue again, sucks her cheeks in, and he's gone. She slithers contentedly up his body, and takes his embrace as only her due.

"I think Lanie should give you more Christmas presents," he says happily when he's recovered breath.

"What? No. No Christmas. No dancing lessons. No Lanie!"

"But look where it got you," he smirks smugly.

Beckett suddenly has a thought. "Castle," she says ominously, "how did you know to turn up at the Doctors' Dance?"

"Lanie invited me," he says smoothly. Beckett inspects his innocent face and limpid blue eyes.

"Did she now? But Lanie had a date."

"I was distraught. She stood me up for some over-muscled fireman. Disgraceful."

"You cooked this up together."

"Nope. No cooking. No together."

She glares.

"None! Anyway, would you rather it hadn't happened?"

"No."

"Well then. Stop complaining. Just enjoy it, however we got here." He kisses her hard.

Some time later, they get round to coffee.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, precisely at shift end, not without considerable protestations, Beckett is dragged out of the bullpen by Castle, and into a vastly over-decorated bar. It has lights, tinsel, baubles, and illuminated Santas. She hates it on sight.

"Why are we here?" she asks crossly. "What's wrong with an ordinary bar?"

"I thought I'd introduce you to Christmas," Castle smirks at her, "seeing as you don't know it. Beckett, meet Christmas time. Christmas time, meet Beckett."

Beckett growls.

"This is the Old Haunt. I used to write here. Look, there's my photo on the wall."

Beckett looks at it. "You were cute when you were young," she says mischievously.

Castle growls.

"Drink?" she adds.

"Already arranged – here it is."

A pitcher of something arrives in a large bowl of steamingly hot water. The something is a dark red fluid, but it doesn't smell like mulled wine. This is a disappointment. She regards it suspiciously.

"Punch," Castle explains.

"Is that a description or the outcome of drinking it?"

He snickers. "Possibly both. Don't punch me, though. I'm sure we can find you a speed bag if required." He pours it into two glasses and hands her one. "Cheers, Beckett. Here's to Christmas Present and Future."

"Happy New Year," Beckett says contrarily.

Castle frowns at her. "Not for a week or so. C'mon. You liked Lanie's present – in the end."

She doesn't have an answer to that. She liked the _result_ of Lanie's present. She didn't like the lessons or the efforts to make her Christmassy.

"So I've got you a present too," he says happily. "Since you liked the dancing lessons so much…"

Her jaw drops. He sniggers evilly.

"…I got you…" she glares viciously and Castle sniggers even more… "…more…" she pales "…not dancing lessons." he finishes with a deeply evil grin.

She collapses with relief.

"Of course I wouldn't get you more dancing lessons," he chuckles. "More than my life's worth. I know you hate them. So I got you something else." He hands her a beautifully wrapped, ribboned and rosetted package. "Now," he smirks, "no peeking till tomorrow."

"Thank you," she blurts. There's a pause. She blushes. Doing this went against every anti-Christmas principle she possesses – that is to say, ninety-nine percent of her December existence. "I got you something too." She shoves a pretty package at him, totally embarrassed.

Castle boggles at her. "You bought me a present?" he squeaks. Beckett is both amused and appalled at his astoundment.

"Yep," she squirms. "No peeking." She regards him cynically. "Or shaking, poking, prodding or squishing."

"You're no fun," he sulks, but he takes the present carefully, his fingers tracing over it as lightly as if it were a butterfly.

* * *

 _ **Christmas Day**_

After Christmas dinner with his family, after all his and their immense piles of presents have been opened, after games have been played and joy given and received, Castle retires to his study, pours a soothing tot of Scotch, and breathes. Before him on the desk is the present which Beckett had given him. He wants to open that in private.

He unwraps it carefully: not for this gift the enthusiastic, messy unwrapping of all their family presents. The delicately patterned dark-blue-and-silver ribbon with matching bow is rolled and put to one side; the midnight-blue paper with silver stars is folded.

He stares at the contents, speechless. And then he picks up his phone.

A little way across town, done with the early Christmas day shift and back from dinner at her father's, Beckett carefully unwraps the package Castle had given her. For the first time in years, and to her considerable astonishment, she has a sense of Christmas-like anticipation. She rolls up the crimson ribbon and puts it tidily to one side with the bow. She won't tell Castle, but it'll go with one or two other little things that he's given her: silly little items of no value at all – but she keeps them.

She unwraps the paper and stares at the contents. And then she picks up her phone.

Before she can dial, it rings, and Castle's number (and face) come up.

"Beckett!" he blurts. "Beckett, it's _perfect_. But I never, ever, ever thought that you would and it's just so amazing and _wow_ and when would you and can we start _right now_?" He stops, having run out of breath.

"Um… about your present?" she says shakily.

"Didn't you like it?" Castle says. "I was sure you'd like it because it was just so perfectly you but I can change it and don't worry and" –

"Stop! I love it. It's perfect."

"– and it's no trouble – _what_?"

"I love it. It's perfect."

"I'm coming over."

He cuts the call before she can answer _it's Christmas Day. Shouldn't you be with your family?_

Half an hour later her door sounds and Castle tumbles in, face alight with happiness which only increases when he sees her.

"You _do_ like it."

"I said so. Yes, I do." She gestures to the pashmina wrap already around her, in a beautiful shade of midnight blue; finely embroidered in blue and silver. "I really, really do."

"I love my present too," he says. "But I thought you hated dancing? I never expected you'd give me a set of dance evenings."

"I hated the lessons. I don't hate dancing with you." She smiles. "Come dancing with me?"

"Any time. Any time at all."

He takes one step and clasps her in, kisses her deeply and doesn't let go. Shortly, the beautiful pashmina hits the couch, and dancing – of a particular sort – is the order of the day.

Later, Beckett snuggles in, perfectly happy.

She didn't need Christmas. She just needed Castle. Because he's all she needs to bring joy to her world.

 _ **Fin.**_

* * *

 _Thank you to all readers and reviewers: old, new, named and guest._

 _A Merry Christmas, and a happy and prosperous New Year, to all of you. Peace on Earth, goodwill to all._


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